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L ▪ B ▪ R ▪ N || James Schiller


L ▪ B ▪ R ▪ N
 
LeBron James.
 
LeBron James hurtled thirstward.
 
Sweat sped thirst. Quadruped thirst. Gulps that groped.
 
Avalanching previously unflexed megapixels, he glowed focal, groping the whole viscera of one millimeter of eternity.
 
Doors disrobed. Distance fissured minutiae. Up gummed into replicant direction tubby grunts past gravity. Available space bent temperature and attempted to cram him with its adjectives like a fresh avalanche of rectangles.
 
In the hammertime this perspired, no joke, LeBron stomped the coptered slop of all possible possibles. Muscleflood trampling the rack. Steam-gears hatching crossover. Undulate fade a severed glacier transmuting lead into Arabic script. What grunted thus was one triplicate cleave. A single geomantic peal so seriously clean as to bleep out fever. Perimeter said perimeter and it disappeared: every inch within became the paint.
 
LeBron’s immediate aura was audience, that bright grinding scrap casket-tanned like tautology. Like oars of in-laws, coagulated. Like a lethal stampede of waffles. They crimewaved their goddamnit slab, mint condition, and flinched through a big pee thesis. When something slowed closed, they grimmed it further. When something tripped “didn’t,” they gangraped the bandwagon. Yes their stairs grew beef leukemia circused around the blemish end of their groupon hero theory. Yes they sputniked the skin of available nirvana like a fiscal mucous. Inside, their klutzblood ghostwrote long division kibble more hello friendly or harebrained than a PTA… diligent but diligent like weeds. Fugly hammer gardens fraught with bupkis clear to their slush fund, LeBron’s portraiture was clogged with knock-offs. His interior bliss syzygy tribbled by pillage, his living assisted.
 
Creaming across the persistent non-fiction an underworld of elephant weapons, LeBron blessed the incoming filth his opponents fickled like an ambulatorized tabernacle. Example: Male Cleavage Feedback. Moreover: Blood Lumber. The scrambling tapestry beneath his heavily atlanticized graffiti femurs like one long, semierect, technical foul. Huffing offense sarcophagi – bling humidity with a million zeroes after it – LeBron suffered no anagram, demanding retaliation language remember his nickname was the bible. The membrane outer claustrophilia went nude for communism… its fannypack vigilance lathering ambient, galloping satellite cuddle-thrusters toward the sports floor in which LeBron was fully operational. Then. Suddenly. The money plumbing stuttered. Postures flopped. Nanoseconds slow-clapped dramamine. The fossilized snot property got conglomerate with wobble. When the remaining masterlock evaporated, a basic tang flaked off ASAP: whatever term dipped itself as shrifts collisioned him, LeBron made wake in the precious minimum whisper that had a suicide pact with the itty bitty – blurbish mister tissue where glue wouldn’t duplicate. Tiny times Tiny, available space boozed through Kafka flaws of cauterized time – limited edition poop futures. Tightwad obelisks where most contemporaries were just ankles. He wanted a discothèqued narrative that was more than minor league, linear crumbs. An afterdimensional vellum information that gravied hate mail prayers so carnivorous purple as to refinance silence. He wanted to say Whoomp There It Is. To that, his millionaire work was regifted into verse – a splitmaul literature that oded poem over poem, double clutch, until it foaled godsonnet on the remaining game and left its players foretorched as chubb gloves.
 
Tripping the built-in human tools every person went to bed with, LeBron’s internal word processor was sopping, as usual, in the place where “off” took a vacation. For once he let it get the best of him: “The point-chained daddybath around me like uninvestigated rain,” generated LeBron and meant it. His limbs suddenly blitzchug in echo location: “Negative slaveries you scratch against the fragrance of whatever my deal is, I therefore wrestle out the glottal property that stormed in and occupied my underthoughts. I have no machine.” He added “Hold on this might take a sec.” Color 1: “In which an ante system exists wooing losers to forfeit their blood and then I get drunk off of it.” Color 2: “In which I bucket enough headsweat to mint a newly translucent ball. The motorswollen orb my eyes pour into and its domicile crystalreverse shouting all contest outcomes by thieving me from places I normally would not have it.” Color 3: “In which I thus listened in on the floorwood’s tint: names nature had throbbed on like goldstained waves and that learn twin sistered in my human competition. It said the bodies and their how and made me understand the magma.” Color 4: “In which my mind now copulates the Jumbotron nonstop – ass-up gravity clank and its subsequent statistics like a wallpaper cooing lukewarm in utero the expendable clog of the real.” Color 5: “In which scored points continue to cancer into the irrational: stretching out like scripture away from the skeptible world and more towards a hole – now also allowed: partial credit.” But none of this flung blizzard splinter or damaged his flagella into any guilt better than the busywork of retweeted gristle. The bleeding had slopped, swelling gone goosedown. One thing basically remained: to say Timmmburrr with vol. IV words a showered stereo of what sport only throated no times out of no. Foot-pounds howling out loud the hidden litter horsemanship of his internal verbs. LeBron kickstarted that scream refund. Backfilled it with print / the menses of his dreams. It was on. His flesh address pouring story now more total and ballet crashes than the flat harassment so typical of standard corporeal meaning, he glitchinked mack truck pastures black with no unison. A fresh cleave began to mill, reality started to tinkle. Disgruntled, the double slush flew quadruple, then octaved out. Its sixteen blistered to thirty-two, then the place where upright twin infinities went down on incest – swam dactyls like cybertron on acid – leapt in for the finish. Something more groaned into most but its width was impervious stilts. LeBron condensed there, dreamt the elder from his Made in the USA, free heaving Nordic warmead and grazed where the candlehaze barenakeded him. The smearplex bread all within his wriggleroom bit it and shifted six feet down right to the hilt: overmind flexdimensions nibelungenlieded full bar / full nude – it appeared where friction shitted a toberlone distortion shore and the new year suddenly clanked paperless. He looked back where he burned through the whole whirligig. He pressed. any key. to. continue.
 
 
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James Schiller is the editor of SWINE, an online magazine of contemporary poetry. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in elimae, Everyday Genius, > kill author, Knock Magazine, Cream City Review, and others. He says things at oldtestamentdeaththreats.com.